My Cardboard Balcony

We are all carbon-based lifeforms worth one tiny particle of stardust. But what we forget is that stardust is brilliant and beautiful beyond measure. When you see the sun, do not just see it as a ball of fire. See it as a conglomeration of star power. The swarming of heat, the black flares in globules. It is a moving energy source that is very alive. Just like we are.

by Belinda Roddie It's physically impossible to ride a unicorn into the sun. Helios tried that before resorting to chariots of gold and fretted flames of bronze and orange tongues licking at horses' hooves. Those poor horses. The sun is no place for unicorns. Unicorns are meant to orbit the sun, their horns painted with the stardust that sparkles like glitter. Because glitter has to go with unicorns, like peanut butter and strawberry jam. Strawberry jam is on my toast this morning. Golden sun serves as my butter. Helios revolves one more time, frowning over his bad luck. Because the unicorns have won once again. They win all the stars. This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.

His foot was chained to the floor, and his arm was chained to the wall. His fingers were chained together, and his toes were, too. Chain wrapped around his shoulders, and chain coiled around his head. Metal serpents bit at his chest and ears and even around his neck. He could barely breathe under so much metal, and only his facial features could be seen under all the necessary weight.

If you're reading this, it's probably not Friday yet. That's purposeful. I am submitting this introspection one day in advance. This is because I will be in Santa Cruz for all of Friday and half of Saturday, participating in an overnight retreat with AmeriCorps. This is a mandatory retreat, and I'm really, really looking forward to it. We'll have the usual training and sessions (I know, I know, actual work? Sheesh), but it's going to be a lot of fun. And there's going to be a talent show, and I am all over that. Guitar's coming with me. Because of the retreat, I will not be able to update my OneWord for Friday. I will not have internet on Friday. Saturday afternoon, my girlfriend will be picking me up and I will be going to her house. I have absolutely no idea if I will be able to borrow her computer for too long. Maybe to pop out the OneWord, but the Storyteller may have to be delayed (again). I appreciate my very few readers' patience as I ad...

Glass Windows by Belinda Roddie She watched the world revolve without her, outside her apartment window. She dreamed of partaking in its wonders, its colors and its sounds, its scents and its flavors. She thought about going back to San Francisco; she liked the fog, heavy and gray over the horizon of the bay. A nipping cold, but a good cold, a calming cold. I’m not in San Francisco. I’m in a shitty apartment overlooking Garden Grove. All I have is the rattling breaths of a worn out air conditioner to keep me company. That and the breeze, nothing but whimpers in the warm spring air. It’s not a good kind of warm. It’s too burdensome on my shoulders. I place my hand against the windowpane and let my fingerprints turn white against the glass. It had been six months since she had been up north. Down here, she had still tried to dabble in the assumed culture. She was a part of that world that she now watched spin by like a crazy, glowing top; a blur of lights and sirens, reds and blue...

No, OneWord's not at fault this time. I am typing this a day in advance because I will be unable to post a OneWord. I will be at an overnight retreat from the 24th to the 25th. Sowwy.

Murphy, Seamus, and Jenna by Belinda Roddie Murphy, Seamus, and Jenna all convened by the pearly gates, drinking wine, spinning their fingers in their robes. They did not speak, instead communicating with body language. Murphy had burned to death, the scars only just fading from his stark gray face. Seamus had died in his sleep, dust picking up around his ankles beneath the sheets. And Jenna had overdosed on small pink pills kept beside her bedpost every night (The toothpaste stain still had not gone away from her fingernails). She had died quickly. The three Irish strangers then moved away from where they stood with nothing left to say.